Static
by OxEyed
Summary: Chance encounters in the rain are about as cliched as you can get, but it's not like Honda's going to let that stop him. One chance is better than none; cliched and happy is better than original and alone. Tieshipping, post-canon. For contest.


_Tieshipping, post-canon. Anime canon (I guess?). There are elements of both the anime and the manga, but Miho's characterization is taken from the anime and Honda's is...mixed. Messy, but I've run out of excuses. _

* * *

The truth was, Hiroto didn't like to be alone.

Okay, well he didn't _mind_, as long as he had something to do, something to focus on, but there were some days, some nights, when he found himself alone with his thoughts, nothing to do and nowhere to go, and it always made him uneasy. He didn't like that interior dialogue, the helpless silence, that voice in his head, always there to point out all the ways he'd failed.

It reminded him of the way he was in middle school, back before he met Jounouchi, and he didn't want to be like that anymore. Middle school _sucked_.

_The only things you'll regret are the things you didn't do. _

Someone had told him that. Who had it been? A teacher? Probably Anzu; it sounded like something she would say. She'd been saying a lot of things lately: talking about what they needed to do before they graduated, places they should go, people they should see. She was talking like they'd never see each other again. He kept laughing her off, but there was a desperation behind the laughter. He didn't want to admit that maybe she had a point.

There were a lot of things he'd never done.

He didn't want to think about that. He pulled his collar up higher and walked faster. This was the latest he'd been out in a long time. But then again, he'd always been more of a morning person. Human beings weren't meant to be awake when the sun was down, and he had to be up, anyway: Jou had this habit of showing up at his house at obscene hours of the morning, restless and bored and _loud_. Hiroto had no reason to be out past eleven on a school night, rain sliding down his jacket and soaking inside his sneakers. Yet here he was.

The truth was, he hadn't been sleeping well lately.

Most of it was insomnia, but occasionally he'd wake up in a cold sweat, scared stiff from a dream he couldn't remember. Normally he'd just trust nature to take its course—ever since Atem had gone, the past had done a pretty good job of _staying_ past—but there had been no reason for Hiroto to be having bad dreams _now, _when the worst of his life was years behind him.

He should just just rolled over and waited it out, but tonight he'd been starving and his parents had been having one of their intense "discussions" in the kitchen. That was nothing new; his family felt like a circus most days, but he wasn't about to get in the middle of them just for a midnight snack, so why not just leave? There was a mini-mart a couple blocks away; the walk would beat the insomnia and the food would beat the hunger. At the time, it had sounded like a good idea.

He hadn't counted on the rain, or on the quiet. He wished he'd thought to bring his dog, instead of leaving her snoring in his bed.

The rain wasn't too heavy, but it had brought fog with it, which didn't make the night darker so much as it made it impossible to see more than thirty feet in front of you.

By contrast, the bright lights of the mini-mart were blinding. Hiroto had to squint as he pushed the door open, bells jangling as he stepped inside, wiping his shoes on the mat just inside the door. The clerk—some college kid—gave him a cursory glance and shrugged him off. Just a wet, hungry high-schooler out past his curfew, nothing to worry about.

A high-schooler who'd been to hell and back more times than he could count, who'd looked the devil in the eye and survived, who'd almost flunked out of high school and who couldn't tell you what the hell he was doing with his life. Typical teenage shit.

He browsed the aisles for a while, killing time more than anything, but in the end he only bought a bag of potato chips. There was some reason you weren't supposed to eat before bed, but he couldn't remember why, just that you shouldn't. He didn't want to go home, so he went outside and went down the street a ways—just enough to get out of the light—and leaned against the wall of the building, just under the overhang.

He were close enough to downtown that there were people out, even at this time of night, and he was watching them to keep himself from thinking. So of course he saw her coming from a long way off.

He didn't recognize her at first. How could he, when all he could could register was a white umbrella bobbing through the rain, the flash of a green dress, the click of heels hitting the asphalt? He was only looking at her because she was there, and it wasn't until she turned to go inside, when she lowered her umbrella, that he understood who he was looking at.

The profile of her face, the curve of her nose, the shape of her lips, the length of her eyelashes, all backlit against the glow from inside the store, was enough to stop him in place, his body freezing up in panic as he found himself transported to his freshman year of high school, with that familiar tightening in his chest, that pain of nostalgia, that flush of panic—

_Summer nights, the oppressive heat, the close quarters of Yuugi's kitchen, the pale curve of her thighs as she leaned toward him, her laughter bright as betrayal in his ears—_

He didn't know when he stood up, when he walked to the glass doors of the store where he was now staring, watching, wondering where the hell she'd come from, and why here, why now? This kind of thing didn't happen to him; it was something straight out of the movies. A girl—_the_ girl—alone, at night. White umbrella, green dress, rain. This was impossible.

But it wasn't. Miho was there, standing in the aisle, looking at refrigerated drinks, the umbrella tucked under one arm, a vague frown on her lips as she studied the labels. He found himself wiping his hands on his jeans, suddenly aware of how greasy they felt, how nervous he was, the way the bottom of his jeans were soaked where'd they'd dragged through puddles, his t-shirt tousled from the last hour of attempted sleep. He couldn't help it; he couldn't stop himself. He pushed the door open and walked up behind her, putting a hand on the freezer door and leaning into her line of sight.

"Need any help?" he said, and it could have been cool, if he wasn't grinning like an idiot, but he couldn't even bring himself to mind, because her eyes met his and the first thing she did was jump back, squealing, automatically shielding herself with the umbrella before she stopped mid-step and started to laugh, breathlessly.

"Don't _do_ that," she said, lowering her umbrella and stepping forward again to slap a hand against his arm. "You scared me!"

He laughed too, more nervously, and started to wonder just what the hell he was doing. He knew he was supposed to say something, but he'd come in here by compulsion and now it was all he could do to not just stare at her.

How could someone look exactly the same and yet wildly different at the same time? Of course she'd have changed; how long had it been? Two, three years? She was older, taller (or was that the heels?), less-less frail. Her weight was balanced, her shoulders square. Her hair was longer, down instead of up. No sign of the ribbon she used to wear on a daily basis.

What did people normally say in situations like this? He knew that chance run-ins like this happened—they had to— but in movies it was always romantic: proof that the characters were tied together by fate, proof that some things were just meant to be. A line like "you're more beautiful than I remembered" sounded about right, but he can't say that, because it doesn't feel true, and because even though she's lowered the umbrella, she's still holding it between them like a barrier.

Because, now that the rush of adrenaline was fading, he realized that what he'd thought was excitement felt more like unease.

"Hi," he said, settling on the obvious. "It's been a while."

She smiled. "Hello," she said, sounding almost shy, but then she tilted her head to study him, a toe tapping thoughtfully on the tiled floor.

"You've changed."

Was she surprised? He couldn't blame her. A lot had happened in the last few years.

"So have you," he said, and she laughed. He didn't. He can't put a finger on just what it is, about what makes this entire situation feel wrong, but it does and he doesn't like it. Maybe it was the three-inch heels, spattered with rain, the studded clutch under her arm, the neckline of her dress, dipping just below her collarbones, or the diamond earrings, the rings on her fingers—

She'd caught him looking, and she pushed her hair back to give him a better look at the earrings, her smile growing just a little bit mischievous. "Don't look so jealous," she said. "They're probably not even real."

He was more preoccupied by the ring on her left hand, wondering if it was supposed to mean something or if she was just being extravagant. "You mean you don't know?" That wasn't like her.

Her tendency to pout, at least, hadn't changed. "Of course not," she said. "It would be rude to question a gift." She looked back at the refrigerated doors, her expression changing for just a moment, as if she was about to add something else—but she didn't.

That wasn't like her, either. She'd always been perfectly polite, but she'd never really been gracious about it.

He doesn't know what else to say: he wanted to ask her everything—what she was doing, where she had been, where she would go, but he was afraid. Afraid that knowing a single detail would ruin the magic of the moment, the sheer impossible miracle that she was here, looking like that, three blocks from his house in the middle of the night.

It was a perfect opportunity: something straight out of the movies, a one-in-a-million chance, and he was going to botch it.

He could tell already. It was sheer luck that she hadn't noticed the way he couldn't stop staring at her, the flush in his face, his nervous grin, his constantly shifting weight as he shoved his hands into his pockets, looking for a way out, or for a way in. It had always been like this with her, he remembered. Never knowing quite where you stood.

Thing was, he wasn't really sure where he wanted to be standing.

She'd gone back to looking at the shelves. Perfectly oblivious: that's what he used to think. Now he had to wonder if she was ignoring him.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" he heard himself mumbling, unable to help himself. "I thought you moved."

"Mm-hmm!" she nods affirmatively. "I'm visiting my grandma!"

He held back the urge to ask for more details. If he did, he was afraid every single question, every feeling he had for her would come spilling out, and he didn't want to ruin this, he needed it to be perfect, needed to have one goddamned thing in his life feel right for once.

She was still looking at the freezers. "I'm supposed to buy wine," she said, almost mournfully. "But the kind Miho wants is too expensive."

Hardly subtle, but subtle had never suited either of them.

"Go ahead," he said, glad to be back on familiar ground. "I'll take care of it." He needed to do something that felt natural, that felt more like the way things used to be. He'd prefer self-loathing sexual frustration to the way things were now: the straightness of her shoulders, the knowingness of her smile, the wariness in her eyes.

"Really?" she said. "Thank you! That makes me so happy!"

Somehow, he doubted it.

He watched her pick out the one she wanted, and he followed her to the counter, waited as she chatted up the clerk. When time came to pay, Hiroto shelled out the cash without complaining. (And he wanted to complain: no celebration was worth blowing over two thousand yen on wine—not to mention Miho's complete lack of concern about being below the drinking age. Hiroto knew no one cared these days, but still. Rules were rules.)

She'd gotten more chipper, practically skipping out the door once he'd paid, and he followed reluctantly, folding the receipt in his hands, feeling guilty, as if there was something he should be doing, some grand gesture that the universe was expecting of him.

Once outside, she opened the umbrella, spinning it above her head a few times as she turned to face him. "I have to go," she explained. "My—"

She stopped mid-sentence, glanced down the street before smiling back at him. "Anyway, it was nice to see you, Honda," she said. "Say hello to everyone for Miho, 'kay? You still see them, right?"

That's when it clicked.

She could have ignored him for a lot of reasons—he could understand that— but she'd liked the other guys, adored Anzu, and they hadn't heard from her in years. They were all her friends, and she'd never once asked about them, how they were doing, what had happened—hell, it wouldn't have been unbelievable to ask if everyone was still alive, considering how things used to be. Back then, they'd made a habit out of almost dying.

"I still see them," he said, reaching into his pockets. "But you should say hi to them yourself. How long are you in town? You should come hang out with us. We're having a thing this weekend, kind of a party for graduation, I guess—Anzu's planning it, and she'd love to see you, and the old gang will all be there, and there's a few new people, too, but they're all right, they'd like you, so you should come, I'll give you a ride if you need one—"

He was rambling, trying to keep ahead of his thoughts. Of course everyone else would want to see her, and that's what was missing here, that group spirit. That's why she seemed so different—she had missed everything, Things would feel right if she saw them. He needed her to see them. She hadn't heard Atem's story, hadn't seen what had happened to Yugi and to Jou, how'd they'd changed, who they were now. He wanted to know what she'd think of Ryuuji, if she'd still fawn over Bakura like she used to—

She was still spinning the umbrella. "Graduation?" she said. "Are you graduating?"

"Barely," Hiroto said, shrugging. Did it matter? He'd managed to bring his grades up a little from freshman year, but he'd never been good at the school thing, and he hadn't really ever seen the point. Going to high school was a way of prolonging the inevitable, of keeping people off his back while he tried to figure out what the hell everyone expected of him.

At least Miho didn't ask him what he'd do next. Everyone and their mother had been asking him that lately; teachers stood at the front of the room every day and parroted advice about the future, about making plans, about evaluating your strengths and weaknesses and doing your best and "there's something for everyone". He couldn't figure out how to explain to the teachers, to his parents, to his friends, that it wasn't the doing something that bothered him—he knew he could get by with even the shittiest job—but what was the point if he was doing it _by himself_?

"What about you?" he asked, finally, uncomfortable with the way she was studying him.

Her smile was going to drive him insane. She spun the umbrella again.

"Miho stopped going to school," she said. "I'm all grown up now."

There was something odd about the way she'd said it, like she'd dropped some hint she wanted him to pick up on, but he barreled right over it, desperate to change the subject.

"So will you come?"

The umbrella stopped twirling.

"It sounds nice," she said, hesitating. "But I don't think I can—"

He'd heard _that_ excuse dozens of times, and he didn't understand why she would make one, but he couldn't force her to change her mind, either.

He _wanted_ to force her. He needed her to be the way she used to be, needed things to go back to how they were, needs to know what would have happened if they could have done everything together instead of apart—

"Do you have a pen in your purse?" he said. "Can I use it?"

Baffled, she produces a pen and holds it out toward him, and he unfolds the receipt in his hands and lays it against his thigh, bending over to carefully write out his phone number.

"Here," he said, handing it over. "In case you change your mind."

She studied the receipt.

Even her hands looked different, he thought. Longer. Thinner, wearier. He could see veins standing out against the back of her knuckles. She didn't have a girl's hands anymore.

"Your number hasn't changed," she said.

He was stunned that she remembered his number, but once the enthusiasm faded, he realized what it _meant_, and all the things he'd wanted to say and suppressed start coming back, filling his head and spilling out his mouth.

"You never called," he said.

She just blinked at him.

"Neither did you."

She said it mildly, as a simple observation, but he saw her shift her weight, pulling her legs closer together, using both hands to hold the umbrella upright over her head.

No, he'd never called, but it wasn't for lack of trying. There was no number _to_ call; sheʼd told them that they were moving, but seemed unsure as to where, hadnʼt known the name of the company her father worked for, or the suburb sheʼd be living in, or the school sheʼd be going to.

After she'd gone, he'd waited until the point of desperation, back when he still thought she might change her mind, and then he'd tried his best to hunt her down, but he had nothing to go on. He even been reduced, a couple times, to interrogating girls in unfamiliar uniforms about the name of their school, about the makeup of their student body (did anyone know a girl who always wore a ribbon in her hair, who sometimes talked in the third person, who was beautiful and adorable and innocent and impossible to ignore if you tried).

"I didn't have your number," he said, blankly, not understanding her disappointed pout, her tiny shrug. "What was I supposed to do?" he asked. "You never told us—"

"I know."

"What?"

She wasn't looking at him; he could barely hear her.

"I'm sorry."

_I was in love with you_, he wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out. What would be the point? How many times had he tried to tell her that before, only to have her pretend not to understand? He'd already lived through one too many failures; this was one he could see coming from miles away. She might have changed, but this never would.

"Why?" he asked, asking not about her apology but about her absence, about the years where she had every opportunity to get in touch and chose not to.

Her hand slid down the handle of the umbrella; her posture slumping ever so slightly.

"Because," she said. "I thought it would be better." She pouted again, the whine in her voice barely playful enough to qualify as cute. "Miho just wanted Honda to be happy."

Hiroto couldn't help the snort that escaped through his nostrils. The list of things Miho wanted probably reached to Bermuda and back, and he doubted his happiness even rated in the top twenty. But her eyebrows lifted, and then she smiled, the expression gentler, more real, than before, and when he met her eyes, he couldn't help smiling back.

After a minute she looked down. "I saw you on TV," she said.

Without waiting for him to reply, she shifted her weight again, crossed her legs and propped a toe against the sidewalk. She was watching the rain, smiling. "It was a while ago," she said. "But it was all over the news. Some kind of game thing. Even Kaiba was there."

She turned back to face him and smiled. "It looked really fun."

He didn't know what to say.

It didn't matter. She was leaving. With one hand, she folded the receipt and turned away, twirling the umbrella in one hand. He watched her go, saw her slip the receipt into her purse, and imagined it lost in a wilderness of makeup and jewelry and a thousand other receipts just like it, realizing that he didn't understand her—that maybe he'd never understood her.

"Miho," he said, loudly, and she paused to look back at him. He could see her face in profile, the shape of it outlined against the darkness.

"Even if you don't come," he said, knowing she never would. "Just if you need anything. For any reason. You can call me."

She remained poised there, caught between the light and the rain, and then she laughed. "Don't be silly," she called back, her voice lilting through the night like a bell. "Miho takes care of herself now."

"At least—"

She didn't turn back this time. "Bye-bye, Honda!"

He didn't try again. He watched her go, fading into the night and the rain until all he could see was a white umbrella, bobbing in the darkness, and then she turned a corner and disappeared.

_Summer, Yuugi's kitchen, Miho's hands, fingernails painted pink, pressed against her skirt as she laughed at him, her eyes gleaming with such bright innocence he couldn't even hate her for turning him down. _

"_More than friends?" she was saying. "But we're such good friends already!"_

_And she would lean towards him, and take his hand, and drag him back the living room, where everyone else was playing some game, and her expression was intelligent, engaged, friendly, but her mouth was set, her hand was cold— _

The house was dark when Hiroto got home. The door was locked, so he found the spare key under the stairs and let himself in, kicking off his shoes and walking in wet socks through the dark into the living room.

The TV was on, blaring the late-night news with the volume muted. He half expected to find his dad sleeping on the couch, but the room was unoccupied. He found the remote and turned the power off before heading to his room, one hand tracing the wall in the hallway to guide him.

He passed the kitchen, pausing a minute to look at the phone on the wall, at the steady red glow of the answering machine. It would blink when someone left a recorded message. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used it—it was usually for his parents anyway.

When he got to his room, he groped his way to the bed without turning the light on. He could hear the thump of his Blankey's tail against the bedspread as he approached, but she didn't leap up to greet him like she used to. Six was far from old age, even for a dog, but she certainly wasn't the oversized puppy she used to be.

Slowly, he peeled off his clothes, draping his jacket and his jeans over the back of a chair before he climbed onto the bed. He didn't lie down, he sat on top of the bedspread, his back against the wall, the plaster cold against his shoulders. A wet nose probed his hand and Hiroto obliged, running his palm over his dog's head before burying his fingers in the fur around her neck, scratching until her tail stopped thumping and she put her head down next to his waist, content.

He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the red light of the telephone in the kitchen, fixed and unmoving.

Chances like that only happened to people in the movies. People connected by fate. But those stories always ended differently. A light in the dark, a kiss in the rain. People turned around, in the movies. People came back.

_You'll always regret the things you didn't do_, he thought, and the possibilities line up like deductions in a ledger: catalogued images of how the night might have turned out, ways he could have changed things, things he should have said. He could have asked her for her number, offered to walk her home, asked her about the dress, the wine, the not-quite diamond earrings—

He wasn't waiting. He knew there was nothing to wait for. But he couldn't stop thinking about the light on the answering machine, of the rings on Miho's fingers, the times that she claimed to love her friends, how she pulled her skirt under her legs when she sat down, the way she'd disappeared, in a rush of goodbyes and smiles, promises to write, vows to keep in touch, and the long empty expanse of her absence, a radio silence that said more than any declarations of love ever could.

She had a habit of smiling when she thought no one was looking, like she'd known all along how things would end. Maybe she did. Hiroto wasn't capable of doubting her, even now. The truth was, he'd loved her too much back then to hold anything against her now.

The truth was, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

**End**


End file.
